27 JULY 1985, Page 7

DIARY JOHN OSBORNE

What do the following divers persons have in common? Chairmanship, direc- torship or membership of: the Metrication Board; Port of London Authority; Mid- land Bank; Trust House Forte; ILEA; Working Ladies Guild; Liveryman Gold- smiths Company; Capital Radio; Noise Advisory Council; Royal Commission on the Workings of the Tribunals of Enquiry; Disciplinary Committee of the Lawn Ten- nis Association; British Motoring Associa- tion; Ordnance Survey Board; Salvation Army Advisory Board; Mount Everest Finance Committee; Top Salaries Review Body? Whose recreations (apart from hunting, shooting and fishing) include: mountaineering, ski-ing (fast), Cresta tobogganing, sailing, painting, photogra- phy? Whose membership of clubs include: Athenaeum, Royal Yacht Squardon, All England Tennis, Alpine, Royal Thames Yacht, Reform? And, lastly, some who are honoured as Cmdr. Royal Swedish Order of North Star, Holder Star of Ethiopia, Cummandeur de l'ordre du verite, Order of Rio Branco Class III (Brazil) and Grande Official de ordem militaire de Christo? Who are these distinguished, striving men and women? They are all among those boasted as council members by the boards of our three principal theatres. It makes you ponder.

Last week a selection of these highest achievers offered to sue me over the Production of an old play of mine which they had recently announced. However, they had forgotten to buy the property before tampering with it. It seems to have occurred to none of them that if you buy a used car, even from the likes of myself, you should pay the owner before selling what doesn't belong to you. Now I hear that the same busy souls are threatening to resign over the rejection of an anti-Government Play about organising food parcels for colliers whippets or something similarly relevant. Perhaps all that downhill racing and strenuous Brazilian relations turns their heads.

The Daily Mail sent out eight devout reporters to assemble a consumer's guide to contemporary rural churchgoing. The result was something like this: Church: St Langudoc's, Gormless New Town, W. Midlands, Congregation: Plenty of collars and ties though one farm worker in defiant jeans with his orange-haired girl-friend. Fine enthusiasm for Family Service with baw- ling kiddies and youngsters scampering among the aisles. The message? Bread and wine can be fun food for all! Music? Depressing old organ droning out What may have been Granny's top-pop hymns written by guys with upper-class names like Baring-Gould and Clough. De- finitely won't start the Duran Duran gen- eration tappin', yappin' and a-clappin'. Comfort: Outdated, hard pews. OK for monetarist squires in Savile Row tweeds, but won't get today's bums on seats! No creche, breast-feeding facilities, light snacks or even coffee vendors! Commun- ion may be fast food all right but so is Chinese take-away and we all know how that leaves you. Sermon: Too long (six minutes). No discus- sion. slide or video show; no counselling. Delivered aloft (ie down) to the congrega- tion in olde-worlde language. Old time bucolics, simple ploughmen and negro slaves must have had eight 0-levels plus to get through this stuff, but our teenagers aren't turned on by ancient `thees' and 'thous'. Too much reference to Israel. The Church messes about in politics enough. No mention of make love not war. Saint Bob knows more about Christian Charity and where it's at — Ethiopia.

Welcome: General handshaking during ser- vice a short relief from accepted stuffiness. No multi-racial or ethnic awareness; just Jews and Christians.

Summing Up: Off with that dumb dog- collar, Rev! — they're the century before yesterday's gear, didn't you know? Pound those sleepy rural, deprived areas of dis- content and get yourself a guitar and a haircut out of the collection plate.

ince writing the above indolent lines I read that the Rector of Stratford upon Avon's Holy Trinity Church has installed a 'liturgical cafeteria' in Shakespeare's old Worship Centre. Having acknowledged the occasional appropriateness of the Book of Common Prayer for sick or dying parishioners (They knew the words of the Lord's Prayer and some of the Psalms by heart and this comforted them'), his real enthusiasm is for his popular new facility. 'In our liturgical cafeteria . . . The service of praise is conducted by a splendid team of layfolk and is informal, sincere and has only a simple framework — With choruses, clapping hands, guitars, trumpets and ven- triloquist's doll. It possibly makes Shakespeare turn in his grave nearby, but it helps to bring people nearer to God in a world where life can be very difficult'. Indeed it can, particularly for those en- gaged in this unholy trade. Attempts at art, irony and artifice are left yapping as ever at the heels of life.

AGolden Scum Award surely to the BBC and Sir John Pritchard for the New English Bible subtitles used in its broadcast of Mozart's arrangement of Messiah last weekend. To impose the infelicities of the NEB on the thundering impact of Charles Jennen's 'scripture collection' of King James, so beloved by GFH and known by heart by the sick and dying like myself, seems like cafeteria culture gone berserk. The valleys were no longer exalted but lifted up; all flesh is heave-hoed, though mankind shall 'see it together'; we don't dare 'rejoice greatly', but 'shout aloud'. Downscreen nannyspeak. Next week: Youf Workshop sings Cole Porter: Hallelu- jah folks! Up with you to the mountain tops!

The Boomtown Rats' latest single goes to all those clamorous bums languishing in their deprived areas who have not yet slipped in among the thousands of con artists who have already penetrated Lord Gowrie's door, ever ajar to the persistent phoney. The uneasy inheritors of Ethio- pian jamboree support the insane demo- cratic view that even Rock and Pop are fruit from the tree the Arts to be picked and paid for by a servile nation. Lord Gowrie said so from their Lordship's bar- row. 'Pound of arts, please, and a packet of Duran Duran.' This Theatre of Absurd apart, it might be remembered that no one ever asked you to write a poem, novel or play. But, if you must do so, in your undoubted jobless despond, sit down, write it and then shut up. It's a tough world, even eventually for Arts Council- granted bums.

Who would you rather sleep with? (Part three):

Alan Coren or Bernie Winters? Molly Parkin or Sir Les Patterson? Robert or Sheridan Morley? Julie Burchill or Sue Ellen?